


At Least We Have Each Other

by jessalae



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, no," FDR says, sitting up so fast he almost spills his scotch. "I didn't mean--" He stops short, takes a deep breath, and reconsiders. "You know what, fuck it, I did mean. Why can't we have sex?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least We Have Each Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katherine_tag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, katherine_tag! I completely agree that the movie’s real ending got it all wrong, so here, have some fix-it fic. :) Many thanks to my lovely last-minute beta!

The explosion is still echoing in FDR’s ears as the smoke clears. He looks down at the woman in his arms and tries not to let his smile get too fucking smug. Lauren is clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing on earth, her eyes screwed shut against the dust and ash. After a minute, she opens them and sits up, looking dazed.

“You okay?” FDR asks her, brushing her hair out of her face.

“I’m okay,” she answers breathlessly. She stares deep into FDR’s eyes, and a smile twitches across her lips. She turns around to check on Tuck, who has a bloodied lip and a wounded expression on his face.  
They all just look at each other awkwardly for a bit, then Tuck nods, covering his devastation with bravado. “Yeah, all right, get a room,” he says.

“Wait, what?” Lauren says, turning back to FDR. “Whoa whoa whoa. I’m not— I didn’t—“

Tuck stops, halfway to his feet. The look in his eyes turns hopeful. “You went to him,” he states, but it’s obviously a question.

“There was an exploding SUV rolling straight at me,” Lauren says, looking at him incredulously. “I had to go _somewhere_ , but that— that doesn’t mean—“ She trails off, glancing from Tuck to FDR and back, and lets out a breathless laugh.

FDR sighs deeply. He shouldn’t be disappointed — this was the outcome he’d been expecting, after all — but he can’t keep his heart from sinking a bit. “It’s okay,” he says, putting a hand on Lauren’s shoulder. “Go with him. He deserves you, really.”

“Go with—?” Lauren pushes away and struggles to her feet. “No! What do you— you’re crazy. Both of you are insane. I don’t want to go with him, and I don’t want to go with you. We are done. All of us.”

“Wait, what?” FDR asks.

“You’ve known each other this whole time and never told me,” Lauren says, holding up a finger like she’s ticking things off on a list. FDR has a horrible suspicion that she’s going to run out of fingers before she runs out of offenses. “You completely destroyed that restaurant fighting over me. You got me and my best friend kidnapped by some wacko who threatened to kill me, then dragged us into a high-speed car chase. You shot out the tire of Trish’s car and sent her careening off who-knows-where. You have apparently lied to me about literally every aspect of your lives. And this is all just the last ten minutes.”

“Not _every_ aspect,” FDR says feebly.

“We also bugged your house,” Tuck offers.

“Dude!”

“We would have had to tell her eventually.”

“You bugged my house,” Lauren says in a flat voice. “Yeah. I don’t know how either of you think you’re still boyfriend material after that.”

“I got rid of most of them!” Tuck protests, but Lauren turns on her heel and marches furiously back down the unfinished freeway.

“Where are you going?” FDR calls after her.

“Anywhere that isn’t with you two,” she calls over her shoulder. FDR looks at Tuck, his face a mask of utter confusion. Above them, a news helicopter circles and drifts closer; sirens wail in the distance.

 

“Where did we go wrong, man?” FDR asks later, somewhat rhetorically. He’s slumped on his couch next to Tuck, staring straight up at the ceiling, his third scotch of the night balanced on his stomach.

“We?” Tuck asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, we.” FDR turns his head until he can see Tuck out of the corner of his eye. It’s a laborious process. “Don’t tell me you think this was all my fault.”

“You hacked the video store’s records. You followed her to work.”

“You—“ FDR searches his memories. “You spied on my dates. You misappropriated government resources.”

“We both did that.”

“We both did all of it! It wasn’t just me!”

Tuck takes a long sip of his scotch, then says, “No, we didn’t _both_ do all that shit. I mean, we each did it, but we didn’t — we weren’t in it together. We were working against each other instead of with each other.”

“Isn’t that how competition works?”

Tuck sits up and jabs a finger at FDR’s face. “That’s where we went wrong, then. Competing. We never should have gone against each other. We never should have mucked with _this_.” He gestures emphatically between the two of them.

“Yeah,” FDR says. “Why did we do that, anyway?”

Tuck shrugs. “I wanted a relationship. You wanted to get laid. Then we both just wanted Lauren.”

“Oh, I know what my reasons were at the time. They just seem pretty stupid now.”

"Yeah," Tuck sighs. "Romantic dreams are all well and good, but when they ruin the good relationships you already have--"

"--they're not worth it," FDR finishes for him.

They sit in silence for a minute. Tuck relaxes back onto the couch, letting his head fall back so he's staring at the ceiling with FDR. "I mean, what do I get from a romantic relationship, anyway? Emotional support. Validation. Intellectual stimulation. Excitement, when it's new or things are going well." He laughs softly and throws his hands up in the air, grinning at Tuck. "I get all of that from you, too, and our work."

"Not to mention someone who shares your interests, and someone you just click with," FDR points out.

"Exactly," Tuck says. "Hell, the only part of a romantic relationship we can't get from each other is the sex part."

As soon as FDR says it, he tells himself it’s the scotch talking, or maybe the stress, or the fact that it's well past midnight. Really, though, it's just the next logical step in the conversation, and one he feels they've been far too long in taking. "Why not?"

Tuck tenses almost imperceptibly, then relaxes again. "What?”

"No, no," FDR says, sitting up so fast he almost spills his scotch. "I didn't mean--" He stops short, takes a deep breath, and reconsiders. "You know what, fuck it, I did mean. Why can't we have sex?"

"Well, professional ethics, for starters--" Tuck splutters.

"Yeah, forget those for a second, when do we ever pay attention to those anyway?" FDR waves a hand impatiently. "Seriously. What's stopping us?"

Tuck looks equal parts perplexed and incredulous, with a little bit of apprehension thrown in for good measure. His expression would be hilarious if FDR wasn't suddenly feeling so very emphatic. "Neither of us is gay?"

"Well, not _gay_ ," FDR says. "Doesn't mean I don't like guys sometimes." The apprehension in Tuck's face ratchets up a notch, and FDR thinks about what he just said. "No, sorry, that sounded-- I'm not trying to hit on you," he says, putting his hands up placatingly. "I'm just pointing out the logic of it. We can get everything else from each other. Why not just sleep with each other, too?"

Tuck shifts in his seat, crossing his legs. "A certain phrase about eggs in a basket comes to mind."

"That assumes something bad's going to happen, though. Which, I'm not saying that's not a possibility, we’re not exactly in a risk-free line of work here. But if anything happens to break us up, man— I think I'm kind of screwed anyway." FDR smiles sheepishly.

“Something did just happen to break us up,” Tuck says very slowly and clearly.

“And look what happened, I turned into a complete asshole.”

“A _bigger_ asshole, maybe,” Tuck mutters.

“The point I’m trying to make,” FDR persists, “Is that you’re already so far inside my life that us having sex would basically not even make a difference at this point. If we couldn’t be partners anymore, I would already be so fucked in the head I wouldn’t even have time to miss the occasional bang. That’s all I’m trying to say.” He slumps back against the couch and finishes off his scotch, staring at the ceiling again. “That’s it.”

Tuck’s hand wraps around FDR’s glass, pulling it firmly out of FDR’s grasp and setting it on the coffee table. FDR lifts his head, leaving the rest of his body where it is. “Dude, what—?”

“Shut up,” Tuck says, grabs the back of FDR’s head, and pulls him into a sudden kiss.

FDR is so surprised he almost forgets to react, just letting Tuck press their lips together and breathe hot against FDR’s cheek. He comes to his senses when Tuck decides to swipe his tongue over FDR’s bottom lip, opening his mouth and grabbing at Tuck’s neck, his shoulder, his hair, anywhere he can get some purchase. He tries to sit up further to get closer, but Tuck is too insistent, looming over him and pushing him back into the couch with the force of the kiss. FDR grabs the front of Tuck’s shirt and yanks, a not-very-subtle-at-all hint. Tuck makes a noise in the back of his throat that raises the hair on the back of FDR’s neck. Then he shifts his weight and swings one leg over FDR, straddling him. The kiss breaks for just a second, torn apart by motion, and before they can start it again FDR can’t resist a smug comment.

“I knew you’d see reason,” he smirks against Tuck’s mouth.

Tuck sucks hard on FDR’s bottom lip. “Reason has very little to do with this. If I were being reasonable right now, I would not be doing this--" He tips FDR's head back and licks just under his jaw, making FDR shudder. "Or this," he murmurs, grazing his teeth down the side of FDR's neck, "And definitely not this," he says, grinding his hips right against FDR's erection as he brings their mouths back together, kissing him thoroughly.

FDR's cerebral cortex has all but shorted out at this point, but the primitive part of his brain has got this shit covered. He fists his hands in the front of Tuck's stupid sweater and kisses back for all he's worth. His hips rock up and forward of their own accord, moving like he can screw Tuck through both of their pants, and Tuck groans into FDR's mouth. The kiss gets very sloppy and very, very hot, until Tuck breaks it to stick his tongue in FDR's ear.

"Clothes!" FDR gasps. "Too many clothes. Out--"

"Agreed--" Tuck rips off FDR's shirt (seriously, FDR can hear a seam give way somewhere) and barely gives FDR enough time to work Tuck's sweater over his head before he goes back to work on the side of FDR's neck. FDR splays his hands over the broad expanse of toned muscle in front of him, marveling at all the details he's never noticed before. He could tell a story for each scar on Tuck's torso -- Berlin, Myanmar, Abu Dhabi, that bar fight in Tulsa -- but he's never paid attention to the beautiful, wine-dark color of Tuck's nipples, or to the way Tuck's abs tense and relax involuntarily when FDR rubs his thumb over one nipple. He's certainly never realized how perfectly his hands wrap around Tuck's sides. He gets a good grip on Tuck's waist and thrusts up again, experimentally -- the angle couldn't be more perfect.

Tuck laughs softly against the side of FDR's neck. "I should've guessed you'd want to top."

FDR licks his lips. "Is that cool? I mean, I'm fine either way, actually, but this--" he can't stop his hips from thrusting up again. "This would be--"

"Fine by me," Tuck says. "But you realize it's not actually going to work through my trousers, right? I'm not fifteen anymore. I think I'm a little beyond coming in my pants."

"Dude, you have no idea how much I want to say 'challenge accepted' right now." FDR slides his hands down and forward, cupping Tuck's erection through his jeans. Tuck stifles a gasp. "But maybe next time. For now—"

“Rearranging,” Tuck agrees, and stands up. FDR immediately misses the heat of his body, and gets busy taking his pants off as quickly as possible. “Where d’you keep your lube?”

“There should be a box of condoms and stuff behind the couch." FDR laughs out loud at the expression on Tuck's face. "What? I never know when I'm gonna need it, so I have multiple stashes.”

"Right."

FDR leans down to take his socks off, and when he sits up again Tuck's cock is all up in his face. "Hey there."

"Oh, sorry," Tuck says, not sounding that apologetic as he hands FDR a condom. He grabs FDR's shoulders and shoves him back against the couch. "Just give me a moment." He straddles FDR again, uncaps the lube, and reaches around behind himself.

FDR makes an appreciative noise and runs his hands over Tuck's thighs and around to his ass, spreading his cheeks. Tuck lets out a long, shuddering breath and leans closer. His cock brushes against FDR's stomach, leaving a streak of pre-come. FDR wishes he were flexible enough to lean down and suck it, but they're balanced kind of precariously on the couch -- he doesn't want to risk what they've got going. So he just lets Tuck work himself open, providing the occasional squeeze of encouragement and pressing open-mouthed kisses to Tuck’s chest and shoulders. The heat of Tuck’s body and the noises he’s making way down in his chest are more than enough to keep FDR’s cock interested, but he manages to keep his hips still. Eventually he remembers to put the condom on, shuddering as he rolls it down over his cock.

Finally, _finally_ , Tuck pulls his fingers out with a slick sound and grins down at FDR. “Ready?”

FDR grabs Tuck around the waist and grinds up. "God, yes."

Tuck leans down to kiss him, swallowing FDR’s gasp as Tuck wraps a hand around FDR’s cock and guides it into place. He sinks right down in the same motion, his breath heaving in his chest. FDR sucks carefully on Tuck’s bottom lip, using all his self-control to keep his hips still and his fingers relaxed on Tuck’s sides. After a moment of adjustment, Tuck relaxes, spreading his knees wider and sliding down further, and FDR can’t stand it anymore. 

“God, dude, please—"

“ _Move_ ,” Tuck finishes for him, and rolls his hips. FDR clamps his hands down, fingers digging into Tuck’s sides. It only takes them a couple of strokes before they’re perfectly in sync. Tuck rides FDR like a pro, powerful thighs flexing with every movement of his hips, using the back of the couch for leverage. For his part, FDR fucks up into Tuck like his life depends on it. It's fucking amazing, and weirdly enough it also feels like the most natural thing in the world. FDR looks up at Tuck's face, and Tuck looks back with an expression of intense concentration. FDR grins at him, tongue peeking out from between his teeth, and shifts the angle of his thrusts. Tuck chokes out a moan, and his eyes flutter shut. When he opens them again, he's smiling. FDR leans up to kiss him.  
"Relax, dude," he murmurs against the corner of Tuck's mouth. "We got this."

"Of course we do," Tuck says. His voice is deeper than FDR's ever heard it. He moves a hand from the back of the couch to FDR's shoulder, then to the back of FDR's neck, hips still working steadily the whole time. FDR turns his head to kiss the inside of Tuck's forearm. Tuck swears and takes his other hand off the back of the couch, shoving it down between their bodies to stroke his own cock. FDR leans back, bracing his feet more firmly against the floor and gripping Tuck's sides so hard that Tuck's skin goes white under his fingertips. He's the only thing keeping them balanced now, with Tuck riding him so enthusiastically that they're on the point of tipping backwards off the couch. He lets his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Tuck's panting and feeling the heat of him all around his cock. It's not going to be long now.

Tuck swears again, his voice breaking on the last consonant, and FDR's head snaps back up so he can watch Tuck come. Tuck's eyes are closed, body still rocking deeper and deeper on FDR's cock, hand stroking himself furiously. He bites his lip when he comes, shuddering down to his bones, and his fingers tighten on the back FDR's neck until his grip is just short of painful. FDR makes his thrusts slow down, then stop, watching Tuck intently.

Tuck's eyes open lazily, and he smiles at FDR, his breath still coming in gasps. "Your turn," he says in that low, low voice, and FDR's cock twitches. Tuck grabs the back of the couch with one hand, tips FDR's face up with the other, and proceeds to kiss him like the sky is falling, running his fingers through FDR's hair and sucking on his tongue. His hips start moving again, slowly at first, picking up the pace when FDR whimpers into his mouth. FDR desperately needs to breathe, but also doesn't want to stop kissing Tuck, and anyway he's _so close_ to the edge that if something breaks their rhythm now he's going to make some truly embarrassing noises. And then Tuck presses closer and works his hips harder and FDR makes all those embarrassing noises anyway as he comes. He breaks out of the kiss, taking in huge gulps of air. Tuck laughs, probably at him.

"Shut up," FDR gasps. He collapses sideways on the couch, hooking an arm around Tuck's neck to bring him along and nearly tipping both of them onto the floor. Tuck laughs again, rearranges his body so he's next to FDR, then rests his head against FDR's shoulder until his breathing slows down.

After a moment, he lifts his head. "So, that just happened."

"Yes it did."

"D'you know, it actually seems like a better idea now than it did when we started?"

"Does it?"

"Yeah. A bit backwards from how it usually goes."

"This way's better." FDR shifts, trying to get comfortable. This couch is really way too small for two grown men to sleep on, even pressed as close as they are right now, but they'll make it work. Together, they can do anything.

And if they do end up on the floor, well, that's just an opportunity to move to the bed, isn't it?


End file.
